A Rose With Thorns
by Hekate1308
Summary: Life was a game, and she was determined to win. Anne Stanhope character piece.


**Author's note: Another oneshot about a character that I love. No disrespect is intended towards any historical person – this is based on the tv-series only.**

**I don't own anything, please review. **

Life was a game, and she was determined to win. She'd always known it wouldn't be easy; women didn't count, at least according to her father. And yet she'd always been sure she would make a difference, would take whatever life threw her way, and triumph.

She hadn't been asked whether or not she wanted to marry Edward Seymour; a daughter had to obey no matter what. And she had done what was asked of her; her father had been pleased with her marriage, and really, that was all she could have wished for –

According to her father. She'd been determined to be happy, no matter what.

She hadn't got the worst of husbands, on the contrary; she had soon grown to love Edward.

If only he'd loved her back, just a little. She had never asked for much; but she still thought a husband should want to pleasure his wife. Everyone thought a man was entitled to feel the pleasures of love; why not a woman? She had every right to be happy. Just like Edward.

Sadly enough, their pleasures didn't seem to be the same. She understood why he wanted to be in the King's grace; she understood why he wanted to be successful in politics, better than anyone else. She truly did. What was a man if he didn't prove himself successful? What was a man if he couldn't win in this game called politics?

Yet, she'd always wished, and she still did, even now that she had found – other solutions to her problem, that he showed more... desire for certain aspects of the relationship between a man and his wife. He didn't treat her badly; on the contrary, she could buy what she wanted, eat what she wanted, do what she wanted. He'd never hit her, never betrayed her.

Although, somehow, his being so utterly indifferent to every physical pleasure was more difficult to deal with than she would have thought.

If she'd lost her man to a woman, she could have coped; she would have been angry and sworn revenge, but she would have coped. But to lose him before she'd ever really had him, and to something like politics –

She couldn't compete with his work. She couldn't compete with the one thing that meant the world to him. The only thing that would ever mean anything top him.

She had to admit that she could have had it worse, though. Like poor Lady Rochford; being married to a man who preferred the company of other men – and treated her badly. Poor Lady Rochford, who had finally gone mad in the Tower. She didn't think it had been just the prison sentence, though; she had been driven mad over time in this world of men. She hadn't been strong enough. And one needed to be strong; to become a woman, to live with the husband your family chose for you, to survive bearing children.

She had felt sorry for Queen Jane too. She had more or less been married of to the King, only to die after the birth of the Prince within a year of her wedding. She didn't doubt she'd been happy, in a way; that she had been content to live the life her father and her brother had chosen for her. And yet – what was it but death in life, to obey the law of men? They were made of dust. True, woman was made from man's rib; but this meant that all her faults were man's faults too.

So why should she, Anne, have to live a life of seclusion, bowing down before her father, her husband, simply because she hadn't been born a man? It was just coincidence, she was sure; just coincidence and not God's will.

If it were God's will who became a man and who a woman, if it were God's will that men should rule over woman, he would never have allowed a woman to become the foremost champion of the reformation.

To this day, she believed that Anne Boleyn had been innocent. She had failed to bear the King a son, that was all. But could she really be held responsible for all this? She was a woman herself; she knew that there was no secret code to bear a son. She knew that no woman was responsible for the gender of her child – otherwise, in these times, no woman would ever give birth to a daughter, and humanity would have died out long ago.

But Anne Boleyn had saved them from the Bishop's of Rome false faith; she had led them towards the right path, even if the King, sadly enough, seemed to still be catholic at heart. But they were no longer the slaves of the Pope; they were free to read the Bible themselves, even in their own language. She knew Anne Boleyn had been of her faith; she knew that, should her or her husband's beliefs ever be made public, they wouldn't live to see another day. The King had always been an opponent of Luther, sadly enough. They could continue to believe in the reformation, though, and subtly working towards their goal of freeing England once and for all of the heretical beliefs that had made it a slave of the Bishop of Rome for so long. At least in this respect she and her husband were of the same opinion.

But he still didn't look at her in the way a man should look at his wife. He simply wasn't made for these pleasures.

So, after a while, she accepted that she and her husband wanted different things, and she had started looking for a lover.

She had known having a lover could be dangerous, especially if your husband was a famous man. Still, she was convinced that, if she were careful, nothing would happen to her, and she was lucky that she could take one. If she had been Kitty – young and so very naive Queen Kitty – she would never have done it. And what had it brought the silly child? An early death and an unmarked grave. And no one had grieved for her. It had been the King's fault, in her opinion. He wasn't a young man anymore, and he had taken a pretty, hot-blooded wife.

She wasn't Kitty, however, and Edward wasn't the King, and she would do what she wanted. So she'd found herself several lovers over the years. Some women forgot how many men they'd had, just like men forgot how many women they'd had. She'd never forgot a single one of her lovers.

Sir Francis Bryan had been the first one. She'd liked him well enough; he had fulfilled her needs in a way her husband never could, never would, and for that, she'd always be grateful to him. She wouldn't deny that her husband telling him to keep away from her had made her happy, either; Edward Seymour jealous had been one thing she'd thought she's never see.

If he had been truly jealous and not just concerned about his position at the court, that was. She was intelligent enough to tell him, though; to make him see that he had no claim upon her faithfulness if he chose not to make her happy in every respect. He hadn't answered, but with Edward, that was as good an approval as she was ever likely to get. And Edward Seymour, the brother of the late Queen, the uncle of the future King, would never make the mistake of accusing his wife of infidelity. She even suspected he was somewhat glad to be rid of his duties as a husband.

There had been others after Sir Francis. She remembered every one, of course, but there was no need to be indiscreet. She knew that she had to be careful.

She'd only been reckless once, and that had been when she'd chosen her husband's brother as her next lover.

Thomas was so – different from Edward. More passionate. Less intelligent, perhaps, and less diplomatic, but warmer. She'd wanted him, and she's soon realized that he wanted her too. So she'd acted.

Thomas had been wrong about one thing, though: She didn't hate her husband. She'd never hated her husband. She admired him, loved him in her own fashion. She didn't hate him. It was difficult to hate someone who was so utterly indifferent. She could have hated him if it was just her he was indifferent towards; but the truth was that her husband had never cared for anyone. Not for his sister, not for his father, not for her, not even for his nephew as his nephew. The only reason he looked after the Prince was because he was the future King of England.

Thomas would never have managed to reach Edward's position, but he would never have condemned his enemies to death with such cruelty, either, or at least not without them knowing exactly who was responsible and why. Edward was more dangerous than Thomas; Thomas was more predictable than Edward.

Which was why she'd had him when she'd had the chance. And she'd got a son out of it. She would have been equally happy about a daughter; she had never doubted that she could raise a female child to be just like her, strong and free. But being a boy would make things easier for Thomas.

Had it been cruel how she'd told Edward who his father was? It would have been if she'd been capable of wounding him. But nothing except the loss of his power could wound Edward. Thomas' face when she'd asked him which name they should choose for his child had been far more satisfying than Edward's reaction, or rather non-reaction.

There had been others after Thomas. Of course there had been. She didn't like it when a man was too crude in his advances, too blunt, though, and she'd always rejected those who were. Like Henry Howard. He'd been too confident, too full of himself, and she'd had fun showing him that he wasn't entitled to everything simply because he was a Howard. He hadn't acted like a gentleman afterwards – but seeing as he'd later been executed, she didn't bear him a grudge. Neither did she pity him, but why should she? She wasn't a saint.

She had continued to work for the reformation, she still did, although one had to be careful these days. She would never forget this last look on Anne Askew's face; on her friend's face. To this day, she prayed for her headsman; he had been good enough to do what she'd asked him to, and she hoped that it hadn't been just for the money.

She had got her own revenge for Anne's death in time; she had shown that Bishop just what a woman could do. What a woman could know. He hadn't been very clever in hiding his gains. And she knew everything there was to know about her enemies. She always had. One couldn't be too careful.

Especially now. They all had to be careful.

The King would die soon and Edward would be the most powerful man in England. Naturally, people were already trying to find out what they could about him – and her. Should they. She wasn't afraid of her affairs being known, not anymore. She was on the look-out for a new lover, anyway. Maybe some men would get curious. Would want to own her. Not realizing that she would never be owned.

Life was a game, and she was winning.

**Author's note: More a character piece than anything else, but I had to write it. **

**I hope you liked it, please review. **


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